


Reflecting

by rosa_himmelblau



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 18:41:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: A mobster who is probably insane.A vampire who can't get his own meals.This partnership is not a good thing.





	Reflecting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [killabeez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/gifts).



Sonny lit a cigarette first thing. That was the part he liked best, the cigarette afterward. It was even better than the sex. He could still taste the cigarette smoke of Vinnie’s one kiss. Then he went over to the mirror and stared at his reflection.

He didn’t look any different. He never looked any different. It didn’t make any sense. How could he—how could he be doing this and not look any different? It was like that story about the guy with the painting, only he didn’t have any painting. He just didn’t look any different because he didn’t care about what he was doing.

Sonny used the toilet, throwing his nearly burned-down cigarette in the bowl, then he washed his hands. He lit another cigarette and left the motel room.

He’d just realized he’d picked up the room key—keys on his mind, he needed his car keys—when a man stepped out of the shadows. “You about done with him?”

“What?”

He nodded toward the room Sonny had just come out of. “I said, are you done with him?”

“Done with who?” Sonny watched the other man closely, trying to decide if he could take him, or if running would be a better option. He was one of those goth weird-os, only for some reason he’d bleached his hair instead of dyeing it that sickly black they all liked so much.

“Him, whoever he was. You didn’t know his name either, did you? I don’t care, what I want to know is, are you done with him? You’re leaving now?”

Funny thing, Sonny wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t afraid this weird-o would find the dead hustler in the motel room; he wasn’t afraid of anything. “Yeah, I’m leaving now, but there’s no point going in there, he’s—”

“Yeah, I know, he’s shuffled off his mortal coil, that’s the whole point, innit? I was walking past and I smelled the blood.”

“What blood?” Sonny asked. There hadn’t been any blood; he’d just put his hands around the kid’s throat, same as always.

The weird-o shrugged. “How do I know, I wasn’t in there, was I? Point is, he bled some—’cause you’re sure not bleeding—” He leaned toward Sonny and sniffed at him. It was strangely erotic. He shrugged. “And I smelled it.” 

“What’re you, some kind’a bloodhound?”

“Not exactly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I like my meals to be at least room temperature.” He plucked the room key from Sonny’s hand and the cigarette from between his lips. “Catch you later, love.”

Sonny watched the weird-o go into the room and push the door closed, but Sonny caught it before it could latch. The weird-o didn’t notice, so Sonny stood and watched.

He didn’t believe in vampires. He did believe in seriously fucked up people who did seriously fucked up things. He pretty much had to, since he was one. The part he couldn’t understand was why there was no reflection of the weird-o in the mirror when Sonny glanced into it. It showed nothing but the hustler lying naked on the bed. That was very, very strange, but Sonny didn’t let him bother him. He didn’t let anything bother him anymore.

!

Spike had known the killer was watching him feed, but so what? He was just happy to have a decent meal for a change. And he was gone when Spike was finished with his hustler.

“Why the hell did I never think of this before?” Spike asked himself when the hustler’s body was drained of blood. “It’s fucking brilliant.” Spike hadn’t killed him, so he wasn’t harming a human being; he was simply utilizing what was left behind. No harm in that, right? Use the whole buffalo and all that? His chip said it was hunky-dory, anyway, and if you couldn’t believe the chip the US government stuck in your head, what could you believe in?

Really, he was doing a service to the community, helping dispose of some bio waste.

The killer hadn’t seemed to be quite all there. _‘Course, he’d just strangled a hustler to death, so bonkers was kind of a given._ Spike thought he’d seen him someplace before, maybe in the newspaper. _Maybe he’s wanted in a whole string of these killings!_ Spike thought blissfully. _Maybe I’ve found myself my very own serial killer. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? I’d be on easy street. All I gotta do is follow him around, like those—what are they called? The little fish that follows the big fish and eats what’s leftover from their kills. I could have a tasty meal every night! And I’m sure I could teach him a thing or two about body disposal. This’s a match made in heaven._

Spike lit a cigarette, thinking ecstatic thoughts about having a serial killer of his very own. _Well, maybe not every night; don’t wanna get greedy. If he did it every night, he’s bound to be caught. But no matter how infrequently he does it, it’s better than what I’ve been living on lately._ The thought of free human blood—and maybe free ciggies—made him smile. _All I gotta do is find him again, but that won’t be tough. I got a good whiff of him, didn’t I?_

Spike knew the hustler’s death hadn’t been an accident; the killer wasn’t freaked out by leaving behind a dead body. And Spike figured out why he’d said there was no blood; he’d strangled the hustler, but he must’ve banged the kid’s head against the headboard while he was doing it, and head wounds bled a lot.

Spike went home feeling better than he had since those sodding army scientists chipped him like a collie they wanted to be sure not to lose. He wasn’t worried about losing his killer, or missing anything during the day. This wasn’t the kind of hobby you practiced in the daylight. When the sun went down, he’d find where his killer lived and stake the place out—you should pardon the expression. Just a little play on words, there.

!

The first one had been an accident.

Not the first hustler; that had been quite intentional. He’d looked something like Vinnie, the same dark hair, and eyes nearly as blue, but nowhere near as pretty. Strangely, Sonny hadn’t enjoyed him much.

The next one didn’t look anything like Vinnie, but that wasn’t any better. It was the third one, the one with dark hair but not those blue, blue eyes—his eyes had been more of a greenish something—he was the one who started it all. He’d said something, something Vinnie would have said, Sonny actually heard his voice—

He hadn’t meant to kill him.

It was funny, because he couldn’t remember just what the kid had said.

Anyway, that was where things got weird. Because instead of keeping Sonny up, killing that hustler had given Sonny the best night’s sleep he’d had since Vinnie—

Vinnie was not coming back.

It was all Dave’s fault. Dave with his nose for cops, Dave with his inability to mind his own business. There was no way Sonny could have explained to him that he didn’t care that Vinnie was a cop, he wanted to keep him anyway.

No way Dave would have understood that, even if Vinnie hadn’t been a cop.

Didn’t matter anyway; they were both gone now, and Tony, just for good measure. Sonny didn’t know if Dave had said anything to Tony or not, and by that time he didn’t care. Dave had taken Vinnie out, Sonny had popped Dave—who the fuck cared about one less Tony Greco in the world? Tony bought it on general principles, even if Dave had been the one to pull the trigger.

Funny thing was, after they were gone, Sonny didn’t care anymore; he couldn’t feel anything. He tried to miss his brother, but every time he thought about him, all he could feel was angry. He’d barely known Vinnie Terranova, but he’d wanted him the way he wanted oxygen. And now Vinnie was gone.

The stupid thing was, he’d’a gotten over Vinnie. There was no reason to think he was different from any of the others; a fever in Sonny’s blood that would cool down when he wasn’t new anymore. It was only the not being able to have him that made him special. Wasn’t it?

Sonny discovered life was a whole lot easier when you just didn’t care. What was that called? Nihilism? Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose. Sonny was incredibly free. He got himself a fake ID, took all his money, and disappeared.

He knew the cops were looking for him, probably figuring he’d had something to do with Vinnie’s death. And he hadn’t made any attempt to hide having killed Dave. The cops wouldn’t care about that, but they’d be more than happy to use it against him if they could.

That was OK. That didn’t matter. Sonny figured he could stay under the radar.

He had no idea how many hustlers he’d killed. The fact that he could not remember, that he couldn’t even remember how long this had been going on, that he had to buy a newspaper to be sure what day it was—that told him everything he needed to know about his mental stability, if you wanted to call it that. He didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind was blowing: he was flipped out.

_And now I got some guy smelling me. What the hell does that mean? He said he could smell the blood! What blood? There wasn’t any blood! The last thing you wanted around when you were killing somebody was a lot of blood. It’s messy, you invariably picked some up, or you cut yourself and left some of your own blood. Blood’s complicated and messy, and you avoid it whenever you can._

_So who the hell was that guy?_

Sonny turned out the light and closed his eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

!

Spike found his killer easy enough, and once he had him nailed down, he went to the library, to see if he could find out where he’d seen him before. The computer gave him what he was looking for.

Sonny Steelgrave. Steel Grave. It would be hard to claw your way out of one of those. And Sonny was a bad thing for a vampire no matter how you spelled it.

Spike had been pretty sure Sonny wasn’t a West Coast kind’a guy, so he started looking at back issues of newspapers from the East. And there he’d been, a minor league Mafia guy who’d apparently killed an undercover cop, his own brother, and one of his henchmen. And that was just to start. The cops had no idea that Sonny had moved on to killing random hustlers.

Sonny. The name tickled Spike. He walked out of the library humming _When Sunny Gets Blue_ under his breath.

!

When Sonny woke up in the morning, he knew who the weird blond guy was: he was Sonny’s conscience.

!

Spike kept tabs on Sonny for almost a month before something—pheromones, maybe—told him tonight was the night. He stood in the shadows and watched Sonny get into his car, light a cigarette, then turn the ignition. As the car was starting to back out of the space, Spike yanked the door open and jumped into the passenger seat. “So, where to, mate?”

Sonny looked faintly surprised, but not the least bit concerned. Yeah, well, the guy was off his trolley.

“What’s on the menu for tonight?” Spike asked. “Light meat, dark? I hope you’re not going for a virgin; they’re a little rich for my taste.”

Sonny pulled the car over and looked at him. “I didn’t expect to see you until later.”

Spike took the cigarette from him and took a drag. “Yeah, well, I figured I might catch the first act. Be in at the kill, if you’ll pardon the expression. After all, you watched me work, why shouldn’t I watch you, Sonny?”

Sonny started to light a new cigarette for himself, but Spike put the first one back between his lips. “You wanna watch?” he asked carefully, inhaling deeply. He smoked, Spike thought, like a vampire, as though his lungs didn’t matter anymore to him than his car upholstery. 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

Sonny took another long puff. “Why?”

“Why not? My evening’s free.”

Sonny laughed. “Yeah, why not? So, what do I call you?”

“My name’s Spike.” Spike took the cigarette back for the last, most deadly, drags.

Sonny lit another cigarette. “Spike. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You were expecting something?” Spike asked.

Sonny shrugged. “Not really.” He shook his head, seeming amused. “Spike. That’s weird.”

“What’s weird about it?” Spike demanded. People didn’t make fun of his name. Well, not people who hadn’t known him before he changed it.

“It’s not the name you’d expect a conscience to have,” Sonny said. “But what the hell.”

Spike squinted at him, trying to think if he’d missed a turn on the yellow brick road. He didn’t remember one. “Name for a what?”

“Conscience,” Sonny said impatiently.

“You think I’m your conscience?” Spike asked. This was even more daft than the whole serial killer thing.

Sonny gave him _a don’t try and shit me_ look for an answer.

“How could I be your conscience?” Spike demanded. “I’m not trying to talk you out of it, am I?”

“No,” Sonny said.

“Then how the bloody hell can I be your conscience?”

Sonny shrugged. “My conscience never tried to talk me out of anything in my life,” he said. “Why should tonight be any different? You know my name,” he added, as though that proved anything at all.

“I saw it in the paper, didn’t I? Of course I know your name! I read all about you, you’re some big Mafia boss.”

“Not anymore,” Sonny said.

“You’re off your trolley, you know that, right?”

Sonny looked annoyed. “Aren’t you supposed to be saying something profound? That didn’t sound very profound to me.”

“Awfully sorry. I didn’t know I was playing your conscience. I thought I was just here for a good meal.”

“With an attitude like that, you’re never going to get your wings,” Sonny murmured.

“Sod off! I’m not an angel of any kind! C’m’on, forget profundity, let’s just do this. Only tonight, I’m gonna watch.”

Sonny started the car again. “Fine with me.”

!

Sonny had been surprised to find out other people could see his conscience. The first hustler he approached had seemed reluctant to get in a car with two men, so Sonny drove to the motel he’d been planning to use and let Spike out there.

“You got money?” Spike asked.

Sonny didn’t answer. He was wondering why his conscience would have an English accent, and if it was a real English accent, or a pretend one, and which would be weirder?

Spike snapped his fingers. “Money. They aren’t going to let me have a room on the strength of my devastating good looks.”

“Yeah, right.” Sonny took out his wallet and tossed it to Spike. “Leave the door ajar, so I’ll know which one it is.”

“Right.”

!

Sonny was back in under twenty minutes with a nineteen year old who looked like he’d been around the block a time or two. He didn’t seem to mind Spike’s presence, and Sonny didn’t seem the least inhibited. Spike enjoyed watching them. He thought about joining in; he didn’t think Sonny would mind—though he might’ve been wrong about that, since who brings their conscience to bed with them? But he decided to just enjoy the show for the moment. One thing he could say for Sonny: when he paid for sex, he really got his money’s worth.

There were three acts: Sonny boffing the pretty hustler blind, Sonny strangling the pretty hustler until he was dead, and Sonny lighting a cigarette and going to look at himself in the mirror. Spike only understood the first two, but maybe if he could see himself in a mirror, he’d want to look at himself after he killed someone, too. If he could still kill anyone.

On the whole, it wasn’t an action Spike was in any position to judge. 

But it was his favorite kind of entertainment: dinner theatre. He sucked the hustler dry, and when he was done, he lay back feeling pretty damned sated. Sonny was there, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and putting it in Spike’s, and life was pretty close to perfect.

It got better when Sonny shoved the hustler’s body on the floor and joined him on the bed.

Spike thought about asking how he could be Sonny’s conscience when he himself didn’t have a conscience, but he didn’t think Sonny would have an answer. He was spiraling down fast.

There was a word for that ugly spiral, when serial killers stepped right off the edge: decompensation. Spike remembered when all that word had meant was that the heart wasn’t pumping enough blood to keep a person alive. If you’d asked him a month ago which definition held more relevance to him personally, that’s the one Spike would have chosen. The world certainly did surprise you, didn’t it?

Spike leaned forward and put his lips to Sonny’s, wondering what would happen. They’d done some things, but they hadn’t done that.

But nothing happened; he got kissed. It was a hungry, lonely kiss that Sonny ended abruptly.

“What happened to him?” Spike asked. He didn’t want to; he didn’t care. Still, he felt compelled to ask. It was part of the story, wasn’t it? You asked the other bloke what happened to fuck him up the way he was fucked, and then he told you his sad story and asked about yours.

Sonny cut his eyes to the body on the floor, then looked at Spike like he was stupid.

“Not him,” Spike clarified. “Him.”

Sonny smiled. “Oh, him. He was one of the good guys.”

Spike made a face. “Oh. I know how that song goes. So, what’s the deal with the hustlers? The sex isn’t any good without the big, final finish?”

Sonny shook his head.

“Well, what, then?”

“I get a good night’s sleep afterward. It’s the only time I really sleep.”

Spike nodded. That made sense. People would do a lot of crazy things when they couldn’t sleep. He didn’t ask who Sonny was really killing when he put the hustlers down; that didn’t matter. The good guy was dead, or he wasn’t; whoever he was, he was gone.

But Spike was here.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know whether to apologize for this, or just hide. (I’m not sure who to apologize **to**.)


End file.
